Personal Jesus

"But He was pierced through our transgressions,

He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well being fell upon Him,

and by His scourging we are healed."

(Zechariah 13:6)

     Sweet Jesus, sweep away my debts using Your blood as cleansing currency.  Spill enough to cover the costs of future errors.  Take punches.  Take piercings.  Be pissed on.  All for the joy of paving a possible path for me towards perfection.  The power of Your death throws will aid me greatly.  Your tears, milked by anguish, will conjure greatness from my soul.
     Drink from the bitter cup of your love for me.  Relish in my future ascension as the whip wraps around Your body.  Tell me of the pleasures blending with your torture, because it's all for me.  You are both my punching bag and my benefactor.  How romantic.
     I appreciate the outlet.  Your pain is the prism of which my sin and shortcomings shine through.  The mismanaged anger.  The problematic sexual compulsions.  The vanity.  Take it all and plunge towards death, having faith that there's life on the other side. 
     Who wouldn't feel loved?  Seeing your body hanging there, blood and water dripping from those lifeless limbs, I feel whiter than snow.  I feel renewed.  Strengthened.  I'm empowered by the sight of you upholding your end of a selfless bargain.  The lamb of God Himself slaughtered on the altar of my life... on the altar of my inabilities... on the altar of the original sin perpetually evolving in my heart.
     Don't we all want a personal Jesus?  After all, aren't we all suffering for someone else, too.  Sacrificing.  Spreading ourselves thin.  Swallowing the shame of others.  I haven't turned my face away while being spat on, either... I haven't shielded my body from weapons formed against me, because those behind me wouldn't survive the blow.  Thank God for Christ.  Thank God for a matyr persecuted for His undying belief in me?  Thank God for reciprocity.

Images above are snapshots for Alejandro Jodorowsky's "Holy Mountain"
 

Souvenir Soreness II

                At this time, his plane is probably taking off for Lima.  Not having the heart to look at the specifics of his itinerary, all I can feel is my heart stretching too far, too fast.  I worry if I’m elastic enough.  I imagine snapping being fatal.  I imagine possibilities that he’d never return, leaving me torn.  My imagination is being very unkind to me in this moment.

                Left alone in a hotel suite, in this spacious king-sized bed, my only company are these tingling sensations.  Without thinking, my fingertips are at my shoulder, softly tracing the indention of his teeth marks in my skin.  Once again, I find comfort in the souvenir of soreness.  I spent the morning revisiting my neck, my chest, my feet…  My ass, my thighs, my belly…  Although he’s gone, I can still feel the subtle throbbing from where he’s bitten me.  The further he travels away from me, the more I hunger for him.  I’m glad to have such a living example of his hunger for me.

I need all the validation I can get.

52 Pick-Up: 3 of Clubs

    It’s natural for relationships to change.  Times.  Circumstances.  Needs.  There are so many factors that’ll cause the shape of love to bend and twist.  “Are you sure?”  Looking into her eyes, I can see that she’s serious.  We have certainly reached a turning point.

Her eyes read honest, as she answered,

“Yes. I think it’s a good idea.”

Getting on her nerves, I squeal, "For real?"

"Yes!"

    I thought our future was already filled with limitless possibilities.  Infinite arrangements.  Infinite journeys.  Infinite destinations.  But now, my head calculates what would happen if I’d multiply the infinite by three.  All I could say was, “Wow…”  Three people sharing a single connection.  Three people sharing the same household.  My future splinters before my eyes.

Is it even possible?

    Our strange brand of love just got real.  Its no longer a working theory, but a lifestyle.  We've seen people live comfortably outside of convention.  We've witnessed families blossom in this way.  We've seen children sprout up completely healthy and well-adjusted.  We want in.  Whether this third person is a lover or a child.  We want in.

"3 of Clubs" by Boistrous

Drunken Thought #15

     I've been tucking it into my pocket.  Nice.  Neat.  In a cute envelope.  Each and every time something stupid comes out of your mouth, I've been gently filing it into the abyss behind my left lapel.  My thoughts and emotional impulses are folded two or three times to fit perfectly... To fit nicely... To fit neatly...
     Aren't I a saint?  Aren't I an alchemist?  For converting bullshit into pretty packages...  Sealing bullshit filled envelopes with a decorative closure... It even matches my outfit.  Aren't I nice?  Aren't I neat?  Aren't I a well-trained negro, to be so tall?  My jacket is so well tailored, you barely notice the lump swelling beneath my left lapel.

Enter: Vodka

Enter: Example after example

Enter: The right time for all the wrong things to happen

     Even the finest paper dissolves quickly in alcohol.  The beautiful, ordinate seals can not contain the bullshit locked within.  What happened to nice?  What happened to neat?  My mouth is neither.  My arms won't stop flailing.  My beautiful jacket is ruined!  And, I don't care.  It's covered in smelly, age-old bullshit.  And, I don't care.  You need to know.  They need to know.  I need to know.

     My pockets are bursting open for the world to see.  Here I am, in my Sunday's best, vomiting in public.  It needs to go...  All of it...  Get out of my body...  Get out of my face...

     In retrospect, I would've reconsidered my filing system; if I had known it would explode at a later date.  All of it at once.  I would not have tucked my anger away in neat places.  I would not swept my emotions under a rug so expensive.  Now, I have a mess to clean up.

     I've learned that even the abyss can fill to its brim....  Even an European-tailored jacket can tear at it seams.  Even the most beautiful, most extravagant seals have their limits.  Shit.  I thought I had finesse.  I thought I was professional.  It turns out, I'm a person, too... Shit.

Bad Sex: (Ep. 3) "Some Like it Rough"

     LOGO's new television series "Bad Sex" has garnered by attention.  The show features a sex therapist's work as he helps people with dysfunctional sexual issues.  Each episode focuses on a single client as (s)he participates in group and individual therapy.  I found the first two episodes to be nothing short of thought provoking.  Peeling back the layers of their sexual behaviors, the sex "specialist", Chris Donaghue, helps to reveal the deeper emotional issues they were masking with sex.  Good TV.
     The third episode rubbed me wrong.  They turned the camera to Erin, "A rough sex/love addict".  Choking.  Cropping.  Fetish.  She admits, "Sex has to be rough for her to enjoy it."  I found myself waiting for the bad part.
     Her therapy with Chris and the other clients showed that Erin had some major intimacy issues.  Habitually, her relationships consist of sex alone. No conversation.  No cuddling.  No connection.  The major problems with her love life were flagrant.  However, what offended me was their need to continue to emphasize her kinky proclivities.  Slicing in scenes of her purchasing sex toys and buying fetish gear.  From what I seen from the show, I believe her issues were independent of her kink.  Yet, the directors continued to draw this connection between her fetish and her fear of intimacy.
     Her two-year relationship with a married man was the problem, not her urge to be tied up.  Her ability to stay in a relationship with a man who fucks her and then sleeps on the couch was the problem, not the whips and chains occupying her toy box.  Maybe I would've appreciated it if Chris assured Erin, "It's okay if you like to be choked."  I think this show had an opportunity to be kink-positive and progressive, but squandered it on being sensationalist.

I think its possible to have your emotional/spiritual needs met in a kinky relationship.

  I think psychological health can co-exist with fetish.

What do you guys think about this episode?

Tags: Gay Video & Lesbian Movies, Logo: Fierce TV

Quantum Touch: Cups

     It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  Bending.  Striking.  Digging.  An adult can dissolve into a crying child.  A human being can transform into an animal.  A body, of flesh and blood, can open its gates and become the ocean.

It was a Friday morning...

She surprised me...

     Placing the first suction cup against her back, I turned the knob.  She snaps, "Ouch! Can't you do it any slower?"  Massaging her back with oil, kneading her skin and muscles, I warm her up before trying again.  Turning the knob slower this time, I watched the plastic case fill with her flesh.  Hissing, "Fuck," she slams her fist against the ottoman.

Her mouth may have been filled with curses.

Her fists may have been filled with her comforter.

But, the scent of her cunt filling the air

was all the permission I needed to apply the second cup.

     Twisting the knob clockwise, her speech was quick and punctual, "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  If I listened more than sniffed, I'd stop.  But, my nostrils filled with the musk of a masochist.  My instincts took over and continued to systematically work her body.
     Taking my time, I strategically fastened cup after cup, riddling her backside with several of these bizarre attachments.  Sucking.  Pulling.  Tightening.  It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  After the third cup grasped at the flesh of her ass, something changed.  Suddenly, like a gust of wind, silence made its presence known: sacred... still... golden...
     Someone 5' 5" can tower over the tallest of men.  Soft curves and moist valleys can match the hardness of diamonds.  It was Friday morning and she revealed herself a goddess.  I swear, her humming voice made the temperature rise in Oakland that day.  All I could do was watch and praise the miracle before me.

"Zen" by Forbidden Light (Featuring Boistrous)

Drunken Thought #2

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I'm waiting for an opportunity to tell my story.  Before the scab... Before the scar tissue... Before the blemish...  No one has ever asked me what happened in the first place.  Before the broken skin... Before the spilled blood... Before the ambulance ride...
     It's been a very difficult story to keep to myself.  But, no one asks, "How did you get that x-long gash from here-to-there?"  Instead, I'm told to "apply cocoa butter to reverse the hyper-pigmentation."  As if, healing lies in the reverse of the trauma's symptoms.  As if, I'd be free if the scar blended with my skin-tone.  As if, the disappearance of my scar will make me forget his forceful hands in my hair.  Before telling me, "Black skin is prone to darken where a barrier is breached,"  please ask if I'm proud to see evidence of a threat null and void.
     I've been longing to say 'yes' for so long.  "YES!"  I've wondered how that would sound from my lips to my ears. How would "YES" sound reverberating throughout the air?  "YES, I've been in scuffles."  "YES, I've fought for my life."  "YES, I'm still here, in spite of the sharp edge held firmly at my face."  However, I've longed to say "YES" without adding my name to the long list of victims.

Why would I want to cosmetically remove a badge of honor?

 

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I've been equally redundant to call upon my truth.  I would hate to have all-that-I-am reduced to 'fucked up', so I stay silent.  Waiting...  Longing...  Furiously masturbating to the thought of someone giving a damn enough to ask, "Where'd this come from?"  Pointing to the scar between my eyebrows.
    Is it a rude question to ask?  Is it inappropriate to inspect my body and inquire about your findings?  Probably.  But, I find it equally rude to discuss the matter on Oprah's coach; in an attempt to promote my latest project.  I guess this story will die with me...or, it'll splatter from lips when I'm desperate for some attention.  Which isn't today.

Black Spark: Blackstreet

What is this, that drives me out on his limb?

     At some point, "I love you" didn't do it for me anymore.  No matter how I said it: in the heights of passion or in the depth of emotion, It didn't completely translate how I felt.  No matter how much I said it: the rattling of a dated declaration didn't do my feelings justice.  "Love" was too shallow of a term to define the nature of our connection.
     Looking into his eyes, "Cum inside of me," felt right.  Holding his pumping hips in my hands, "Cum inside of me," became an opening statement before a sacrifice.  I wanted him to know: I am devoted.  What's a word to describe my need to put my life into his hands?  To use risk as evidence?

The intensity,

building with every stroke,

makes me wish I had a womb to capture this moment.

       With my legs drawn over his bouncing shoulders, our rhythms drive me mad.  The thirst for his every drop develops into a compulsion.  Regardless of what sprouted from his seed, whether a jolt of life or a slow death, "Cum inside of me!"  I wanted him to inhabit me.
     His face falls open.  His muscles clings to my body.  Pumping in clinging spurts, we began to bond in a new way.  Spraying.  Churning.  Soaking.  Whether to build a new life or to weather the same sickness, I cast my life into the winds of his orgasm.
     As his body collapses onto mine, I am filled with the unknown.  Questions swell in my head.  Possibilities play themselves out.  What did I just do?  There is so much pending... So much to be determined...  What's a word to describe my desire to die, if he's going to?

"Cum inside of me," felt right.

Black Spark: Chapter 1.5

"Elsewhere a villain in born.

 He will take your power...

 ...up his ass.

 ...down his throat.

 Now, he has stolen mine: I lost focus.

 I must find him and take his load." - Black Spark

 

     I kept nodding off at work today.  So damn tired from staying up all night masturbating.  Beautiful Boys.  Dusty Basements.  Lasers.  Lust.  Abandoned Dance Floors.  I couldn't stop watching.  These films activated something deep within me, I couldn't lift my eyes from the Black Spark.

Everything I've ever wanted from pornography:

Artistic

Experimental

Sensual

Irresponsibly Truthful

     After my fourth load, my orgasms weren't wet anymore.  But, like the characters in the films, I couldn't stop touching myself.  Stimulated on every front, my hands and cock were inseparable. Poetic lines scrolled across succulent close-ups.  The way their secrets sparkled kept my thighs open. The music kept me awake long enough to squeeze out the fifth.

I'm so damn tired...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: The Process

     Weeks later, I am still processing my time at the Folsom Street Fair this year.  What is it about Folsom that makes me feel like I'm in my element?  Of which spirits did I fellowship?  I think I may have tasted a morsel of something significant.  Something clicked.  I feel compelled to pursue this harmony, discovering what it means for my life's purpose.
     Whether it was a cold breeze or warmth from the afternoon Sun, it felt so good on my bare hide.  Exposing myself in public...  Playing without fear of judgement...  It felt good to be surrounded by a community of people doing the same thing.

Its painful to think about this happening only once a year.

      I think I am realizing how much I need this.  Sex and Sun needs to continue sharing the atmosphere.  Public displays of fetish needs to be met with smiles and the lighting up of eyes.  Kinksters should go home with the thought in their head, "I am not alone."  What can I do to usher this kind of environment into reality?

That's where I always get stuck
I don't know.

     I think "Journals of an Intelsexual" shines a light on sex-positivity, broadening people's perception on sexuality and fetish; but what's next?  I am racking my brain trying to figure out my next steps.  I've taken a few shots into the dark, submitting applications to open positions within the sex industry and reaching out to kindred spirits.  I feel this to be a tremendous turning point in my life, both professional and personal.

All I can do is pray

This passion is weighing on my heart for a purpose

I await to see what surfaces

Photos courtesy of Boisterous & Tommysole

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part II)

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I’d start with me and him naked.  On all fours.  Overlapping on the motel room’s floor, we were in unison.  With her legs wrapped around my neck, her heels sat on my back as he serviced her feet.  Slurping.  Moaning.  Flicking my tongue over her clitoris, I can feel his warm mouth alternating between her feet and my back.  Taking turns licking and lapping.

Us: Gnawing and nibbling.

Her: Moaning and giggling.

     I love the warmth of their limbs wrapping around me.  Embracing me from behind, his hands roams all over my body as she fills his mouth.  Our services are synchronized.  Our thirsts siphoned  from the same well.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start the next scene with her on her back.  Putting myself on top.  Her throat and teeth quivers around my cock.  Plunging his fingers inside of her, he feeds me her pussy from his palm.  Spreading her lips further apart, I rhythmically dart my tongue directly on her clit.  Each orgasm makes her body shake and rock; I love the momentum.  I love the way he sucks her juices from my beard and how our tongues battle for the last drop.  I love kissing him. 

Two heads are better than one.

Four hands are better than two.

Three lovers are better
than any fantasy I could've mustered on my own.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start with poetic thoughts of dreams coming true.  His tongue rakes across the sole of my left foot.  Her mouth seals around the toes of my right foot.  Heaven materializes before my eyes.  Infinite hands sliding across my skin.  Tongues slithering and darting inside of me.  Heads rising and falling in my lap.  I've prayed for a moment like this... Being worshiped by two people at once.  Fireworks exploding in my body!  A network of pleasure tearing me apart!  For an hour, I attended Heaven.
     Its his turn to stare at the ceiling.  She's on all fours.  I'm kneeling behind her.  We're going to fuck on his face.  She can barely maintain her composure; as I stroke deep inside of her, his mouth tugs on her cunt from beneath.  Every few strokes, I'll remove my erection from her and give it to him to suck clean.  It was a beautiful sight, to see his bearded face respond some greedily.  His hands traveled to my hips, groping my ass...then to her hips and her breasts.  Every few strokes, there was another mess for him to clean up.

To be continued...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part I)

     Folsom is more than a street this weekend.  What typically is driven on, somehow drives everything in a ten-mile radius and beyond.  Inspiring.  Intoxicating.  Influencing.  The Spirit of Folsom fills me with an infectious excitement.  We’re all excited.
     In a crowded bar.  In a buzzing social scene.  Cigarettes.  Booze.  Dancing.  This is how we wanted to meet him.  If he turned out to be annoying...  If he turned out to be boring…  If he turned out to be crazy, like the guy from last year’s Folsom Street Fair, we had a way out.  My girlfriend and I wanted to make sure there was chemistry before going any further.

I think we fell in love immediately
Already intrigued by his intense need to serve
We didn’t expect him to be so handsome

     In a crowded bar.  Random introductions.  Cell phones.  Clicking.  Coronas with lime.  I can’t remember who’s idea it was to remove her shoes.  Immediately dropping to his knees, publicly taking her toes into his mouth.  His tongue wiggling between each of her toes soon met mine as we both serviced her right foot.  French kissing each other as we sucked and kissed her feet, commentary floated around us, “Ugh! That’s just nasty!”  Like magnetism.  Like gravity.  I was pulled into this moment of worship.  “OMG! Hold on, Jim; I’ll call you back.”  Name calling.  Cameras.  Cheers.

I loved every moment.

     It was safe to say we had chemistry.  Kissing my girlfriend.  Kissing him.  Watching him and my girlfriend kiss.  To taste the salt from her toes on his tongue.  It turned me on to share each other.  I’ve never had an experience so all-inclusive.  Everyone was into everyone equally.  In that moment, no one was straight or gay.  Single or coupled.  Equally helpless to each other’s charm, we were simply lovers.

To be continued...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: A Random Introduction

     Its one a.m. and its already "tomorrow".  I am dreading the thought of returning to the office.  The thought makes me cry.  The thought makes me turn this bottle of Fernet Branca upside down against my face.  The thought makes me reach out to random strangers, "Am I crazy?"  Yes.  I am not ready for "tomorrow".

I don't want this moment to end...

Although, its already over...

The leather's been packed away...

The freaks have scattered to maintain their respective lives

     We celebrated our day in the Sun.  We exhaled audibly outside of the shadows for a change... Outside of the basements...  Outside of the exclusive underground that binds us.  I am nagged by my depression, "Why are you celebrating the 1/365th of a year you can share the same Sun?"  I don't know.  The unfurling feels euphoric... liberating... But, the sub sequential re-integration is becoming unbearable.

Damn, I'm out of liquor.

     It's 1:34 a.m. and I am stepping deeper into "tomorrow".  Although, I have a beautiful woman sleeping next to me, I feel so lonely.  Not from the lack of quality company, but from the reality that we are mentioned during Sunday sermons.  Kinky.  Polyamorous.  Sadomasochistic.  Queer.  We are the people mentioned to get a rise out of the congregation.  I feel lonely because a false accusation becomes true because of my rare proclivities.

I am instantly wicked because I am twisted.

 

     This is what happens.  Every time fantasies materialize, every time I receive a massive offering of love and service.  The reality makes me sick to my stomach.  The reality persuades me to escape from "tomorrow".  Indefinitely.  What if my dissonance indicated that this isn't my "reality"?  Instead of cramming myself back into that ergonomically-correct desk, I should be screaming, "Fuck you, vanilla world!"

I damn and praise this awareness that I need a job!

     This weekend was beautiful; I will be spending this week writing about all that happened.  The problem with beauty, however, is that everything pales in comparison.  Its hard to get dressed in a suit and tie, when you've publicly frolicked in the nude.  Its difficult to step foot into the office fresh from a game-changing threesome.  It's challenging to have a taste of freedom and go back to the same stale coffee.  Just to stay alive.

Hopefully, my brain chemistry balances.

Hopefully, reality proves to be a great companion to fantasies.

Hopefully, I have an easy day at work "tomorrow".

Images by Michael Macku

Quantum Touch: Brush II

He wants it so gentle...so soft...
I have to give it a little hard.

He wants it so smooth...so slick...
I take this opportunity to scrape and prick.

     I don't think I'm a sadist.  But, I do like the way his body alternates between relaxation and tension.  Bathing him in extravagance with sudden splashes of course boar bristles, he's so confused.  Although I'm barely touching him, he can feel that this brush is much more coarse...less flexible...cold.  He wants roses, but they also come with thorns.
     Switching brushes, one moment he's climbing the walls, the next, he's melting into my bed.  He likes it all.  Brushing the inside of his thighs with the tough brush, he got a much needed opportunity to make some noise.  Even church mice have a need to scream.  The softest men can appreciate a little edge.
     Turning him over, he points his tail upward.  Dangling.  The golden hairs on his balls are begging to be brushed.  At the slightest touch of the boar bristles, his hips jolts into the air.  He can't catch his breath.  A second swipe makes him shake uncontrollably.  After his sensual fit, he returns to his former position.  I like the way he readies himself for whatever I want to do next.

That's love.

     Dropping the brushes, my fingertips on his skin makes him melt.  Human contact.  Rubbing my palms all over him quenching his thirst for affection.  Pressing my naked body against his naked body.  Kissing him deeply.  Wrapping my arms around him.  Pinning my erection between his cheeks.  Human contact: there's nothing like it.

Photographer: Forbidden Light/Model: Angelito

Quantum Touch: Brush

     Mein liebling likes the brush.  He wants it head to toe... ear to ear... cheek to cheek.  He wants me to take my time and stroke every inch of his skin.  Hunching his back as I slide up his calf, I continue towards his ass.  Feeling his voice vibrate through the mattress, I spend extra time caressing his naked backside.  Sliding across his ribs, he moans aloud as I briefly pass his nipples.  I make a mental note to return.

He's so sensitive

     Feeling every fiber, his body squirms so beautifully.  The slightest change in pressure changes the key of his whimper.  His responses varies greatly depending on which zone I was influencing.  His body was an instrument.

     His highest notes:

The tender flesh where his thighs meet with his seat.

His deepest notes:

His testicles

     Concentrating on his right knee, I loved looking up to find his erection rock-hard.  I love his inability to contain himself.  What would make most people giggle and fling their limbs, he relishes.  Interesting.  What reminds most people of crawling insects, reminds him that our nervous system is genius.  Avoiding direct stimulus to his cock, I revisited the truth that our entire bodies are sexual organs... that men can climax without casting pearls... that a little attention can go along way.

Mein liebling likes the brush.

Photographer: Forbidden Light/ Model: Angelito

Zoo

"He's known me all those years...and, suddenly, I'm no-good just because I love the horses?"

     First, I'd like to acknowledge that "Zoo" is a beautifully made film.  The creative direction of this 'docu-film' came across as very artistic and emotive.  Even the script, while conveniently cryptic, was both poetic and confessional.  The beauty of "Zoo" is what left me feeling fucked up at the end of the movie.
     Watching this film, I felt a great deal of dissonance.  While I can not relate to zoophiles, I can relate to the characters' discoveries... The discovery that there's a name for your darkest secret... The discovery that there's a handful of people into the same thing... The discovery that wild ideas manifest into your real life... The discovery that fantasies coming true can be quite destructive.  While I could relate, to some degree, their fetish activated my gag reflex.
     I don't want to get too much into what the movie is about, and I have a feeling the director didn't either.  The hinting.  The code.  The minimalism.  I've done that before, in an attempt to manipulate an audience's perception.  In retrospect, I see that I was steered into seeing their humanity, first.

Overall, I found the movie unsettling.

But, that's why I liked it.

Has anyone else seen "Zoo"?

Any thoughts?

Quantum Touch: Wortenburg Wheel

     Sharp, prickly points traveling across my skin. Certain parts of me can endure while others....not so much.  I, honestly, can not explain the feelings that run through my body and mind.  The simultaneous hatred and appreciation.  The paradox of pleasure and torture.  Throwing tantrums while throwing my legs further apart.  How can I want something that's so annoying...so badly?

I fucking hate this shit....but that doesn't mean I want you to stop.
I try to escape, wiggle out of your hold...while staying still.
Fuck!  Shit!  Motherfucker, that hurts!
Moaning...  Whimpering...  Exhaling, I surrender my body further under your control...

     Giving myself to the one I love, I want to flail my arms and punch.  Why so much pressure?  Why so fast?  Opening myself wider, I realize that I'm in a relationship with a sadistic asshole.  And, that's sexy.  Somehow.  I wish I could explain why I'd spend $9.99 for this Wortenburg Wheel while muttering curse words.  Why do I store a nuisance so neatly in my toy chest?

This is the epitome of a love/hate relationship!

Photos by Angelito/Model: Forbidden Light

Schlampe (Slut)

     We have a game we like to play.
     Sometimes, we play it because I've had a hard day at work.
     Other times, we play 'Schlampe' because she's been very bad.
     In either case, fun is had by all.

     Men like me have certain...idiosyncrasies.  Random bullshit regular women wouldn't put up with.  I like my DVDs in alphabetical order... I like to wake up to an egg white omelet and Jazz... Oh yeah, and I can't cum without a tongue jammed into my asshole.  I've tried speed dating.  I've tried eHarmony.  But, alas, no luck finding "the one".
     Sometimes, I order her from Amazon.com.  Other times, I've found her ad on Craig's List.  In either case, she always comes with stellar reviews.  She's a five-star schlampe from Eastern Europe and she's all mine.  A list of things I've always wanted to do grows lengthy in my head.
     I can't understand what she's saying, but her accent is so cute.  All I can recognize is, "Please, no refund."  She struggles to keep eye contact with me as she hands me a leash connected to her collar.  Forcing her to her knees, the lengthy list gives me a headache.  I want her to make me a drink as I hold her to the ground.  I want her to call me 'Daddy' in her native tongue as I pump my hips into her face.  I want her to do everything these American bitches don't want to!
     That cute outfit quickly becomes clutter on my living room floor.  Her ankles fit so beautiful into my palms.  She looks as me with this odd facial expression as I squeeze into her; as if she was saying with eyes, "How could you do this to me?"  I like that look.
     Hours go by...  Fucked.  Beaten.  Gagged.  She's been dragged throughout my house.  Maybe, I'm not so idiosyncratic.  Pushing me onto my back, she spreads my legs and sticks her tongue in my ass, as if she's done this a thousand times before.  Her voice mumbles inside of me, "American asshole." Question marks fill my head as she comes up for air, "You American assholes are all alike."  I didn't know whether she being a poet or a bitch...  In either case, I was cumming!
   
     We have a game we like to play
     Today, she was the 'schlampe'
     Tomorrow, I may be the one who's been very bad
     In either case, I hope she wears that outfit again.

Photography by Forbidden Light/ Model: Boistrous

Quantum Touch

     Exploring the gulf between nearness and arrival.  Hairs stand on end.  Juices flow.  Almost touching, his body jumps at the mere anticipation of contact.  Erections swell.  Breaths thicken.  He can't stay quiet.  Its something about closing the space between my fingertips and his skin...  His instincts sets his skin on fire as phantom caresses crawl across his flesh.

Remarkable.

The same way light too dim for my eyes to register

can be just as blinding as staring into The Sun.

A touch so soft it's barely felt,

can be just as intense as nerve-numbing pain.

In other words, he's wants it so gentle it hurts.

Photography by Forbidden Light/ Model: Angelito

Baby Sis

We must've grown up together.

The records you're spinning reminds me of the grown folks that stayed up past my bedtime.  Cigar smoke.  High-pitched wails.  Spades.  Funky bass lines.  Laughter.  Here we are, awake past midnight, playing the way grown folks play.  Drinking what grown folks drink.  Smoking what grown folks smoke.  We must've both walked in on Ma and Daddy...this looks mighty familiar.  Her floral dress hiked up past those juicy knees.  My pants, twisted and tangled around my left ankle.  

Yeah, this feels very familiar.
 
Grabbing the curly kinks on her head, there's no escape from my lips.  Wimpering, she tries to pull her neck away from my mouth.  Pressing her hands against my chest, her voice sizzles, "I have to work tomorrow; no hickies."  I recognize: nutmeg, vanilla and cinnamon.  Smells like Grandma's sweet potato pie is cooling behind her ear.  What's that?  Frankincense?  And, Brandy on her breath?  I may have just stumbled upon her secret ingredient.
 
Damn, Baby Sis: breasts big like the women on Mama's side of the family, but, dark like our cousins from down south.  Watching you down there makes so much sense.  Lip smacking.  Neck swiveling.  Impeccable rhythm.  I like the way those big earrings move like pendulums between my thighs.  Swinging in unison.  Her voice hums, vibrating, around my dick the same way Aunties hum hymnals while making breakfast.  Soulful.  Soothing.  Oh, shit.
 
Her hips spiraling up and down on my lap.  I recognize: hula hoops, dutty wine and walks to the corner store.  The Brandy on her whisper, "Oh, Daddy," fucks me up.  The weed smoke on her moan...  The peaches on her kiss...  Takes me back to those Friday nights.
 
No wonder we had to go to bed so early as kids.